


Her Darling

by hoisinn



Category: Othello - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: (nothing explicit at ALL though), Angst, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Violence, POV Multiple, Stream of Consciousness, Written for a Class, YOOOO ITS EXACTLY 1000 WORDS NICE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 02:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoisinn/pseuds/hoisinn
Summary: Cassio said he would be back in an hour, that he would dine with her tonight.





	Her Darling

**Author's Note:**

> We’re studying Mrs Dalloway in class, hence the… heavily inspired writing style. Had to… do stream of consciousness stuff + integration of other quotes. Technically it was only meant to be 750 words but shhhhhh-  
> By the way, yes I love Bianca and Cassio very much and all I want for them is to be happy even though I am only capable of writing angst.

It was more of a worm than a cat, a pipe-cleaner, slinking around the chairs, the table-legs, -pausing once or twice to stop and sniff at nothings in the musky air- before leaping onto a wall, revolving, turning, and turning, and yet going on, until it had tired itself into a lamp-dappled sleep.

Bianca watched it from her lonely alcove- by God, she had nothing else to do. She had rested plenty, bathed, cooked, dressed, she found the books in her room dreadfully lengthy. The Monument of Matrones  had yet still several chapters unread, but she found that she could not sit through them! The prayers were long. The meditations- it was dreadful, she could not sit through it, her sight blurred lines on the page. 

           Cassio said he would be back in an hour, that he would dine with her tonight. He was with his soldiers now. She never did like them much- their weapons would drive through the Cypriot soil, filling it with holes immeasurably more than those made by cannonballs. And they didn’t treat her any better, to say the very least. If she were Cyprus, if she were an island to protect and fight for; why, she felt trampled indeed. It was her soul that was hurt. She had pride, she was educated. Venetians called her a  _ cortigiana onesta _ , and she was respected. Her body was sleek, lithe, and she was beautiful. She had served as a Lord’s mistress before laying eyes upon Cassio’s wounded body, near dead as he was in the infirmary- the soldiers had been overcome, the town was on fire. But she would not think of that anymore! The Turks had been defeated. He would be back. He was out with his Cypriot soldiers.

           They told him that she was cunning, bound to be false- false as water, the very same water that they reached for after a night out drinking upon the battlements- were they not meant to be guarding that? And Cassio, her darling Cassio, he had meant to be so very penitent, for that brought one closer to forgiveness, did it not? And he admired Othello like a king, he had come to her with a smile on his face (she smiled at it too, nearly purred in her happiness- he was becoming too stressed recently); and embraced her; lifted her up; kissed her; and made love. He had a plan, Cassio said. And Cassio very well believed in it, because Iago was a good friend. They had studied at the same school. She was a  _ cortigiana onesta _ , Iago recognised that. His tongue could cut through women’s souls, but he recognised her intellect.

           He was there upon the battlements. Iago stood there to the right of Cassio with a thumb thrust in his belt (as always), keeping his expression carefully neutral in the light of Bianca. She had not meant to intrude, but what meant he by the giving of a handkerchief? He loved her, whose was this? He had slept with no other woman, whose was this? He kissed her, he made love-

           And there he was now! And early! –coming through the door, “Has it been so long?”, he says. “Every minute without your grace feels to me like infinite hours.”

So they dined. So they laughed. So Cassio departed to the barracks.

Bianca would weep afterwards. It felt so short, too short, like she could blink and never see him again. They were gas and fire- just one spark, and they would be gone. Cassio had said “I am your own forever”, and kissed her, and it burnt. She trembled, growled; she hated her weaknesses. But she was an honest courtesan, she reminded herself. She could read, and write. She was self-sufficient.

And Bianca was clever- Cassio knew that. She had read poems to him in the infirmary, she sang songs at home. He had tried to love her, but they would never marry. The word of God forbade it, they would not marry. But who was this, prowling in the dark? It was past midnight, he had sent the soldiers to the barracks, the civilians did not live here. Who was this, who had a sword? It was not held with the confidence of a fighter. Roderigo heard another blade unsheathing, but he could not stop himself, spurred by the very thing that blinded him- fear. Until, suddenly: nothing. A hot wetness upon his side, but nothing else.

           And who else in the shadows across him but Iago? Iago, his friend! They had a childhood together. He was going to help him kill Cassio- and there was his sword now! Thrust in and out the other’s leg and down he went… Where was Iago now? Cassio was screaming, he was supposed to be dead. It was a strange thing, really, for Roderigo felt as if the blade had also plunged into his own body. His friend was not the perpetrator, Cassio was. His sword was slick with blood. Equally suddenly, pain ripped through every nerve of his body; equal parts guilt and fear; he couldn’t die. He had always suffered at the hands of love, but not like this. Never like this.

           The cat descended from the ledge, rattling a vase. Bianca roused herself from her melancholy. Was it broken? She had brought that from Venice, she would have another one made if it was broken. Perhaps she should sleep- a cry cuts through the night- it was quite frightful. Was it a civilian? But the Turks were drowned, Othello said so himself. Ah, another brawl, perhaps? His lordship had not been feeling well, Cassio could disarm the fighters, he could prove himself of worth again. Well, she thought, too, descending from her chair, I have nothing to do otherwise, I shall see him in action.

Her Cassio. Her darling Cassio.

 

_ “What is the matter, ho? who is't that cried?” _

_ “Who is't that cried!” _

_ “O my dear Cassio! my sweet Cassio! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio!” _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways! I’ve got, what, 3 more months until I’m outta school? Whew, that’s. Wow. I’ve been brainstorming a whole bunch of fics- mostly crossovers with other plays, though there’s some stuff for Much Ado, and a songfic for Julius Caesar, and Hamlet seems pretty interesting to write about as well...  
> BUT YEAH. Whole lotta crossovers. *Long* crossovers (one of them’s a high school AU so that’s how you know it’s gonna be great).  
> Speaking of long things I hear you ask about How Silent Is This Town, but I shall not answer due to mild shame at not doing anything with it lmaoooo


End file.
